


deep in her eyes, I think I see the future

by starraya



Category: Holby City
Genre: Domesticity, F/F, Fluff, I know my reputation precedes me but I don't just write about mental illness and suicide, Marriage, Sexual Content, surprise?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9120952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starraya/pseuds/starraya
Summary: "Serena? What do you think of marriage?”“As an institution? Heteronormative, patriarchal. Over-rated. An absolute bastard to try and get out of.”“No, I didn’t - I meant what would you think of marriage . . . with me?”"Oh."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Shut Up and Dance" by Walk the Moon. This was written before the Elinor storyline and ignores all of it.

Serena is sitting next to Ric, taking a well-earned breather from the dancefloor, when Cameron comes over. She's danced with each of the Fletchlings in turn, twirling the younger ones around with her arm, before being herself spun - quite wildly - around by Evie whilst repeatedly giving silent thanks that the only drink she'd had earlier was a very small sip of champagne. Cam looks, in his mother's words, words the dear boy had cringed at when Bernie smoothed her hands over the shoulders of his jacket before straightening his already straight tie, "very dapper". The gleam in Bernie's eyes when she inspected her son, had been the same in Serena's when she first saw Jason in his suit. The gleam had, quite on its own accord, brightened into something wet and shining and slipped down Serena's cheek when she saw Cameron and Jason and Charlotte and Elinor all together.  

 

"May I?" Cameron offers Serena his hand.

 

"You should wait until she's had a few drinks," Ric says. "She rocks the air guitar."

 

"Oi," Serena swats his arm lightly. "Less of the cheek. It's my  _wedding day."_

 

"Never mind him," she says to Cameron as he leads her to the dancefloor, raising her voice so Ric can hear, "he's just jealous."

 

-

 

"So," Cameron says, "the sixth season . . ."

 

"What did I think?"

 

He nods.

 

"Your mother and I binged it in two days. New record."

 

"I hear you've well and truly converted her."

 

"Converted?" Serena feigns the same naivety she did the first time Cameron had raised the television show at Albies. "To a lesbian? I think she already - "

 

Cameron chuckles. "I meant to a superfan."

 

"Hardly, " Serena tuts. "Your mother fell asleep on episode 7. It was half three and we had been at work all day, but I told her it was no excuse."

 

"Talking of orange," Cameron says, "may I say you look lovely."

 

Smiling in response, Serena glances down at the orange dress she wears, bright and plain and knee-length. White never was her colour. 

 

-

 

"Air guitar or not," Cameron say, "you're a much better dancer than mum was."

 

"I'll tell her you said that. All those lessons and bruised toes for nothing."

 

"I said _was._ And tell her I didn't think her dancing was bad at all, even good enough to film."

 

Serena stops dancing as she registers his words. 

 

"You filmed it?"

 

"No," he says, "Elinor did."

 

Serena's face lights up at Cameron's words, the smile she has seemed to wear all day widening. Her daughter has filmed her and Bernie's first dance. Her heart feels fit to burst, and ten minutes later she searches for Elinor, finds her filming the youngest two of the fletchlings happily devouring cake, whilst somehow simultaneously never breaking from a series of quite interruptive dance moves to Abba's _Dancing Queen._ The moment Elinor spots her mother and lowers her camera, Serena throws her arms around her. 

 

"Come on," Elinor says, when they break apart with still two full chorus' of _Dancing Queen_ to go, "let's dance." 

 

-

 

Serena had dragged Bernie to a grand total of one dance class. Bernie had battled on for Serena's sake, but Serena could tell she hated every second. Around the twelfth time Bernie had stepped on her feet, Serena had suggested they cut the class short. It had been a long, tiring day spent traipsing from venue to venue. The idea that they would have something small, a registry office followed by a party at Albies, was quickly crossed out when they drafted the guest list. _Just friends and family_  meant four children (including Jason), their assorted girlfriends and boyfriends, the majority of AAU (including the four fletchlings) and a good picking of colleagues from the other wards, courtesy invitations to ex-husbands and their second-best replacements, sorry, new spouses, reasoned by the fact _Bernie,_ _I can assure you that I am still a fully-paid up member of the embittered wives club, but Edward is the father of my daughter and besides, if we make it absolutely clear that their will be no free bar, Edward won't even bother to R.S.V.P no,_ (neither exes, thankfully, accepted), and then there were the few friends Serena had kept in touch since Harvard, and Bernie's brothers, and . . . well . . . the list went on. And a small do at Albies was no longer an option.

 

Anyway, Serena made no secret that she - as much as she vowed, after her divorce, never to go through the whole rigmarole of marriage again, and that she'd done that, got the t-shirt, splashed it with shiraz and set it alight, thank you very much - well, she rather fancied a party. Rather fancied some fun, and if that fun was part of celebrating finding love again at her age with the most fearless, fantastic woman she'd ever met, at falling deeper and deeper in love with one Ms Berenice Wolfe every day and feeling loved, in every way a person can be, in return, then, a party didn't half sound good. Let them celebrate _them._ From the moment they shook hands over a troublesome car, the whining and growling of which was still yet to be defined as intermittent or otherwise, from the moment the touch-paper was lit, from the very first spark to the gradual flaring of the flame, from soft yellow to rippling amber to burning red. A flame, that had shivered and flickered, shrunk and sprung back into life, but never once vanished completely.

 

Let them celebrate those days, the early, the difficult and the just plain _wonderful_. Let them celebrate the brave new world they both had, together, stepped into and mapped out together.

 

And they didn't have to do it by dancing, no, Serena assured Bernie. (Even if her two right feet, she'd laughed as they left the dance class, were a perfect match for Bernie's two left.) There was no point if they both didn't enjoy it. They stopped the dance classes.

 

And yet, when the first notes of the first song, _their_ first song, began, Bernie, a slight sway in her hips, a slightly cocky smile on her lips, pulled an unsuspecting Serena onto the dancefloor. 

 

"Where is the shiraz you've clearly downed by the bucket-load, and where can I find it," Serena teased. Too focused on manoeuvring her feet and hands into the right positions, and then with getting them to coordinate as Etta James' voice poured into the room, Bernie caught only half of Serena's words. Her brow was furrowed, frankly, Serena had to say, in an adorable mix of concentration and confusion.

 

"Where's your Dutch courage?"

 

Serena felt Bernie's arm tighten around her waist and hot breathe on her neck as Bernie leant into whisper her ear: "She's right here."

 

Slowly, but surely, the pair circled around the dance floor. It wasn't _Strictly_ worthy by a long stretch, it wasn't exactly dancing per se - Bernie freely admitted she had only taken two secret lessons, just enough to teach her arms and legs to work together for two minutes - it was more an effort, successful thank goodness, at moving together, in some semblance of rhythm, without bumping limbs or tripping over feet. By the time the last strains of _At Last_ floated away, Serena's arms had found a home around Bernie's neck and their _dancing_ had slowed down to a gentle sway in one spot of the dancefloor. Their eyes hadn't left each others, locked together, locking them both in the moment, within the sweep and dip and stretch of each song note, throughout the dance and when they finally tore their gaze apart, both found their friends and family around them, looking on.

 

Serena scanned the crowd and caught the smiling face of her nephew - a nephew who had a hour before given a Best Man's speech (one written with Cam's help) that had her welling up from the moment he called Bernie Auntie. She had to quickly sneak off to the loos after the speeches to re-apply her make-up. Bernie had followed her and asked if she was alright. Fine, Serena reassured her, turning away from the mirror. Happy. More than. Overjoyed to have such a wonderful nephew, overjoyed to love someone who loved him like she did. Overjoyed with - to use Jason's word - her new _family_. 

 

Bernie gently wiped away a dot of mascara under Serena's eye. Warned her she'd ruin the fresh coat before it even dried if she wasn't careful - Bernie's too. When Bernie drew back, it wasn't so far back as for Serena to register how close they were, Bernie's body a hair's breadth from hers, Serena's against the sink countertop.

 

It was the first time they had been properly alone that day. They had thought it silly to spend the night apart - they were hardly 20-something newlyweds - but they agreed to get ready separately and meet moments before walking down to the altar together, hand in hand. That morning Serena had woken up alone, having rolled onto the other side over the bed, Bernie's side, after seeking her in her sleep and not finding her body to curl against. Instead, as she stretched out and blinked the sleep from her eyes she found a crumbled note. 

 

_Woke up early. Didn't want to wake you. See you later. X_

 

On the other side of the piece of paper was another sentence. 

 

_Can't wait for tonight, to make you mine._

It had sent a warmth shooting down her spine and the words "me neither" playing in her head.

 

It was exactly now that Serena recalled them, Bernie's wish to make her hers which Serena knew had much less to do with a traditional altar and much more do with the altar of a bed, and Serena's silent promise to do just the same. 

 

The gleam in Serena's eye turned to a wicked glint, before darkening completely and really was it any wonder, that minutes later Bernie had lifted her up on to the edge of the counter, and set herself between Serena's legs, legs now firmly wrapped around Bernie's back, and Bernie's mouth, having drawn out its fill, for the time being, sucking on Serena's lips, was slowly descending down her neck, before latching on to her pulse-point and -

 

The door to the - public - toilets swung open. 

 

"I think that's the part people normally do later. You know, in bed," Charlotte said, before promptly pivoting on foot and exiting. Her razor-sharp humour couldn't hide completely the embrassment in her voice at having caught her mother and, technically, her new step mother, necking like a couple of teenagers in the toilets. 

 

Bernie's laughter was hot on Serena's skin, loud and hawking and goose-like. As the noise rebounded of the tiles of the bathroom - which just happened to have excellent acoustics - Serena's own laughter became near-hysterical.

 

"Bernie, I think- I think-"

 

Any words she tried to say came out in splutters, the ends eaten up by laughs. By the time their laughing fit subsided, Serena's chest was heaving and her ribs were aching. She carefully ran a finger underneath her eyes, catching the tears she could feel escaping.

 

"Bernie," Serena breathed out, deep and low, "I think we just gave the poor girl the shock of her life."

 

Bernie stepped back so she could fully look at Serena's face, her sparkling eyes and wide smile.  The left sleeve of her dress was askew, slipping off her shoulder. The pendant of the necklace she wore everyday was flipped over. 

 

"We're fully clothed," she said, righting the necklace, hands lingering at the top of Serena's - still heaving - chest, "unfortunately." 

 

"She was still presented with proof that her middle-aged mother," Serena took in a breath as Bernie's hand skimmed down, over her breast, down her stomach before landing on her hip, "very much has a sex-life and is not - contrary to common belief -  dead from the waist down." 

 

"Thank heavens, not." Bernie's fingers began to tease at the hem of Serena's dress and the silky, stockinged skin of her knee. Her hands pushed up the fabric, before sliding under and up. When she felt the garters it took all her strength - and Serena's extremely half-hearted reminders that the guests would be wondering where they've both gone or that anyone could walk in on them again - to stop her from hiking the dress futher up Serena's thighs and sinking to her knees. 

 

No, it was Serena's horrified exclamation that she was wet and "not just in that way" that pulled Bernie back to her senses. Serena practically jumped off the countertop she had just further shuffled back on.

 

"This," she grumbled, realising the source of the wetness, "is your fault."  

 

Afterall, whose clever idea had it been to lift her up onto a countertop, next to the sinks, places where people washed their hands, turned on taps and splashed near-surfaces with water? 

 

She turned around to show Bernie the dark patch at the back of her dress. What was, for all purposes, her wedding dress. 

 

Bernie's clamped a hand on her mouth, but not quickly enough to stifle her laughter. 

 

As Serena tilted her head round to eye her disapprovingly, Bernie's hand slipped away. This time Serena didn't laugh at Bernie's transformation into a goose on drugs. 

 

"Serena, I . . ."

 

"Kindly remove your eyes from my arse and suggest a way to fix this, quickly."

 

But Serena's annoyance was short-lived, and she found herself erupting into laughter again, as Bernie's solution was the hand-dryer in the corner of the room. 

 

And that is how, on their wedding day, Bernie found herself guarding the door to the _Ladies_ whilstSerena _,_ stood in Bernie's suit jacket and little else, drying her dress. After she'd took it off, Serena had to quite literally push Bernie out the room, with promises of later and all in good time and patience, dear Berenice, is a virtue. 

 

- 

 

She is dancing with Ric, later that night, when Bernie seeks her out. 

 

"From the moment you told me about you two in Albies," Ric says,  "I could see she made you happy. You deserve every happiness Serena."

 

Not normally one to blush, Serena feels her cheeks redden at her friend's words - words echoed, in part, by Cameron earlier that evening. He'd told her he hadn't seen his mum so happy before. Even thanked her, before defusing the soppiness of the moment by telling Serena that if Bernie had to choose anyone for his and Charlotte's evil stepmother, then he was glad she'd chosen Serena. 

 

It's only half-nine at night but Serena feels tiredness creep up on her. Asks Ric on earth he managed this five times. Two is enough for her. 

 

Serena nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears Bernie behind, chiming in with an "and me" before hovering beside her and Ric. "Can I?" 

 

"Certainly," Ric says and makes a show of graciously releasing Serena for Bernie's waiting arms. He walks away and Serena tells Bernie to watch him go up to the bar. Tells her it isn't a drink he's got his eye on, but rather the blonde bartender he's been sneaking looks at all night.

 

"Took him long enough," Bernie says.  

 

"Yes," Serena replies, fiddling with the lapel of Bernie's jacket as some pop song about this woman being my destiny plays around them, "but they do say that there are some things that simply cannot be rushed."

 

"Quite right." Bernie says, before pulling Serena's body flush against hers so that they are hip to hip. Her hands playfully skimming over Serena's behind, before wrapping around her waist. 

 

"I've been waiting all night," she presses her lips to Serena's briefly, "to do this. My wife, however, is quite the dancer and - "

 

"Say that again."

 

"What?"

 

"The first part."

 

"My wife," Bernie smiles.

 

"My wife," Serena smiles right back before kissing her, long and deep. _My wife._  

 

They leave the reception earlier than most, Serena leading Bernie off the dancefloor with a wickedness in her eye, in her smile and in her hips. Their hands never once separate as they slip out of the hotel function room and upstairs. 

 

At one point Serena has Bernie pinned against a corridor wall, has her moaning into her mouth, but, she decides, capturing Bernie's lips in a smouldering kiss before abruptly pulling back so Bernie can see her full-blown pupils, glistening with challenge, they are going to try and make it to the bedroom. If only for the sake of Bernie's back. Serena all-but runs away from Bernie, turning briefly to cock her head and watch Bernie scamper after her. 

 

Trying to swipe a key card correctly across their hotel room door is a lot more challenging when your wife is mercilessly tickling your stomach and not letting up, and even harder when she does let up and her body presses up against your back and her hands drift to the back of your thighs and under the hemline of your dress and up, gloriously, up to cup you from behind, Serena finds. 

 

When the handle of the door flashes, Serena grips it tight, pushes it open and practically yanks Bernie inside. 

 

There is a low thrum of music still coming from the reception below, music that is quickly drowned out by heavy breathes. By pants and moans and whimpers. 

 

By the silent utterances that they map out on to each other's bodies, with their lips and teeth and tongues and fingertips.

 

_My wife._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: Serena's wedding dress I envisage as something not that different from Caroline's in LTIH, form-hugging, knee-length and smart but orange and with a lower neckline.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah . . . the honeymoon just sort of wrote itself.

They are walking, hand in hand, through the snow-covered streets. A freezing cold wind bites at their cheeks. 

 

“What do you think of Italy?” Bernie says. “I mean – you never got – “

 

“Perfect.” Serena says.

 

And that’s that. Honeymoon sorted. 

 

-

 

Strolling, hand in hand again with Serena, along the sun-drenched Amalfi coastline, Bernie thinks life can’t get any better. A shimmering azure sea stretches out on one side. On the other dozens of white-washed villas rise over the cliffs. The scent of lemon tinges the air. There is only one thing that could improve her morning. Ice-cream. Soft, cold and delicious. And when she spots a place that sells it, she rushes ahead. Pulls Serena with her. 

 

“Steady on, soldier,” Serena says. Pulls back. Follows Bernie’s gaze. Realises what she has set her sights on. Quirks an eyebrow. “It’s half nine in the morning, Bernie.”

 

“We’re on holiday.” 

 

And besides, Bernie thinks, there’s never a wrong time for ice-cream. So, making sure Serena definitely doesn’t want one – “We’ve just had breakfast.” – Bernie, very much like an excited child Serena thinks, dashes over to the little stall and buys herself an ice-cream. 

 

All of two minutes later, they have walked south down the road and Bernie pauses to check street signs for directions (only having taken one tiny lick of the ice-cream). All of two minutes later, after Serena vehemently said she did not want ice-cream, Bernie takes her eyes off it for one second and, of course, some of it goes missing. 

 

“Oi,” she says, even as she holds the cone out so Serena’s tongue can swipe the rim of the cone, “you said you didn’t want one.”

 

“It was melting,” Serena protests. “It was practically dripping onto the pavement.”

 

Bernie’s can’t help but smile, when Serena lifts her head and Bernie sees that’s ice-cream spots her nose. 

 

Serena utters her trademark “what?” and Bernie’s smile stretches into a grin. “What?”

 

“You’ve got –” Some part of her is tempted to lean forward and lick the ice-cream off her wife’s face. The other part of her, that remembers the other tourists around them, passes Serena a tissue from her pocket. Which Serena uses, and then promptly, forgetting the other tourists around them, kisses Bernie on the lips. 

 

“Was that an apology?” Bernie asks, when they part. 

 

“No,” Serena says, and really is it any wonder what happens next, when her voice dips gloriously low and wicked so that only Bernie can hear, and really is it even Bernie’s fault what happens next, when Serena kisses her again, harder and deeper, slipping her tongue into Bernie’s mouth, and really did Bernie care in that moment when the ice cream somehow falls from her grip and into a mess on the floor, seconds after Serena admits it wasn’t an apology, it was her thinking of far more fun and inventive ways to enjoy ice cream. To steal it off people. 

 

Quite literally. 

 

-

 

Needless to say, Bernie wasn’t really thinking of the wasted ice-cream earlier. But now they’re back at the villa, she decides – Serena Campbell, ice-cream thief extraordinaire –needs to pay. Serena, conscience obviously untroubled by such theft, is relaxing by the poolside, the sun lounger on which she lies on a bit too close to the water. Oh well, Bernie thinks. Serena has rested her straw sun hat over her face to shield her eyes from the sun. Soaking up the sun, she lies there perfectly content. Perfectly unsuspecting as a swim-suit clad Bernie creeps up towards the pool.

 

Bernie turns back to take a long, appreciative look at the contrast between the deep blue of Serena’s halter-neck bathing costume (as well as its plunging neckline) and the creamy whiteness of the skin on display. She’s told Bernie she doesn’t tan, just burns much to her irritation when she was younger, and now she just slathers herself with sunscreen and enjoys the sun regardless. It’s a lot less risker, anyway. 

 

The sun has brought out dazzling constellations of freckles over Serena’s arms and upper chest and Bernie has to drag her eyes away. At least her last sight is a very beautiful one, before all hell sets loose via the incitation of Serena’s Campbell’s wrath. 

 

Bernie remembers Serena’s teasing question one day when she had snuck up behind the woman, quite unintentionally. Can you wear louder shoes, please?  
Bernie’s bare feet pad quietly to the edge of the pool. Stand right at the ledge. The nearest part to Serena. When Serena doesn’t stir, Bernie takes a deep breath and jumps into the water, curling her body up for maximum impact.

 

Maximum splashing. 

 

“Berenice bloody Wolfe,” Serena shouts, jumping up from the sun lounger. Bernie surfaces from under the water and twists around in the pool to admire her handiwork. Serena stands, sun-hat clutched in hand, not quite as dripping wet as Bernie had wanted. But her skin is glistening and there are darker patches on her swimsuit from the water and her face is, Bernie inwardly congratulates herself, a picture. Bernie can’t help but break into laughter. 

 

Her smugness will be short-lived. Bernie has declared war and, whilst she is laughing, guards down, Serena is swiftly going in for attack. Creeping up the edge of the pool herself. She dives in, forceful and graceful. Swims up to Bernie. Bernie is just about to tease “show off” before a wave of water hits her. Then another. Yes, Bernie Wolfe has declared all-out war. It takes a several seconds for Bernie to move back in the water, away from the incoming waves, and splash back. Gain the upper hand. Which she quickly loses. 

 

“Please,” she says, out of breath, holding her hands up in defeat. “You win.”

 

Serena mercifully accepts her surrender and moves close to Bernie, to where the pool is shallow enough so that they can both stand up, the water lapping just below their shoulders. They are almost stood chest to chest. Serena’s eyes are gleaming. Her smile is triumphant. 

 

“Was that an apology?”

 

“No,” Bernie says, lifting Serena up in the pool – something she is sometimes inclined to do on land as well – so that her legs wrap around Bernie’s waist, “It was me thinking that –” Bernie grasps Serena’s backside, “surely”, Bernie lowers her head to press her lips against Serena’s collarbone, “there are far more fun”, she trails her lips upwards and Serena happily tilts her head back, granting her more access, “and inventive things to do in a swimming pool.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I've had part of this chapter sitting in Word for months now. The last time I updated was February, but I finally got some inspiration?
> 
> Behold, death by fluff.

Married life for Bernie and Serena is not that different from life before. 

 

There’s some confusion with their names. They’ve both Mrs McKinnie-Wolfe. It’s quite the mouthful and becomes quickly shortened to Mrs Wolfe (not that Serena minds) but soon that proves tricky too – call Mrs Wolfe, what Mrs Wolfe? And there’s a few jokes about what the time Mrs Wolfe and of course there’s that night at Albies, when the whole AAU team are drunk and it’s Bernie’s birthday and Serena asks, a little too loudly, if Bernie would like to go home and everyone correctly guesses the reason for their leaving early but only Fletch dares sings _Hungry like the Wolf_ which earns him the threat of a double-shift and a glower off Serena the next day, for several days actually.

 

Yes, she also heard Fletch’s jokes about ‘hungry’ and ‘eating’ as she and Bernie gathered up their coats. No, she was not impressed. Yes, her sex life was more than satisfactory and if Fletch ever mentioned it again – Serena doesn't blush about these things, but Bernie does, Bernie did in Albies, her cheeks and chest flamed bright red until Serena thought she was suffering a hot flush – so, yes, if he ever so much as alluded to her sex life again, Serena would personally recommend his resignation to Hanssen and Fletch would have to personally, once in the CEO’s office, explain why he was there.

 

News of this punishment spreads around AAU. No one who values their life dares hum any Duran Duran again.

 

-

 

There is more than one issue with Bernie and Serena’s new titles. There is what everyone – secretly – terms mug-gate.

 

For their wedding, Fletch and Raf brought Bernie and Serena a matching pair of Mrs and Mrs mugs whilst the rest of the staff had pooled together for a coffee machine.

 

For some reason, one of the mugs was always clean, the other always dirty. There were fierce debates between Serena and Bernie over who was whose and who was in the most desperate need of coffee. Sometimes got a _bit_ dramatic. On those days, you avoided the tension-filled AAU office, so as to keep your head attached to your body.

 

Okay, things weren’t that bad. At least, not until one of the mugs went missing.  

 

Then all hell broke loose.

 

_Bernie, this is my mug, the letter m has been peeling off at the corner for some time now._

 

_Serena, it was on my side of the desk._

 

_Our desk. Communal property. Besides, we’ve married. What’s mine is yours._

 

_Aha! So, you do admit it’s mine._

 

 _Details, details, darling._ Serena put her legs up on her desk, sipped from Bernie’s mug with glee.

 

_Mrs Wolfe, you are getting severely paid back for this._

 

_Oh, I look forward to it._

 

Three weeks later they finally found the lost mug, in the back of one their kitchen cupboards.  

 

_I have absolutely no idea how that got there. They’re our work mugs._

 

_You have no absolutely recollection of taking it home one day and forgetting about it?_

 

_It sounds like a possibility._

 

_So, it was my mug, after-all._

 

_Bernie? Darling?_

 

_Yes?_

 

_We need more work mugs._

 

_-_

 

In the midst of mug-gate, Serena had asked where Raf had managed to find a same-sex pair. Raf said that he hadn’t – the mugs were Evie’s idea and she had her heart set on them, adamant that they were the perfect gift because of the two surgeons' love of coffee. Raf had brought two sets of traditional mugs. He’d kept the two Mr and Mr mugs. Hopefully, Fletch would finally get the idea to make an honest man of him.

 

-

 

It was one month after Serena had returned from sabbatical that Bernie finally cottoned on to Holby’s newest gay couple.

 

Serena had looked up from the book she was reading, glasses perched on her nose and brow furrowed.

 

“Bernie?”

 

“Hmm,” Bernie replied, sleepily. As she had been reading, Serena had been weaving her fingers through Bernie’s hair.

 

“I think I should ask Hanssen if we can paint a rainbow mural on AAU.”

 

Bernie’s head was nestled in Serena’s lap and she turned her neck to look up at her. “What?”

 

“Well, I come off sabbatical and suddenly Raf and Fletch are cohabiting again, but this time not quite in the brotherly sense. I mean, I say suddenly, it’s taken ages for them to –”

 

“Wait, Raf and Fletch?”

 

“Are gay. You didn’t know?”

 

“I thought they were just –”

 

“Your gaydar is extremely rusty.”

 

“I’m not sure that exists.”

 

“It does. And you’ve having me on, Bernie. Raf and Fletch were already practically married when you arrived on AAU.”

 

“I honestly didn’t know.”

 

“Took you long enough to figure out I was into ladies.”

 

“Hang on, it took you a fair amount of time as well.”

 

“Touché.”

 

Serena brushed Bernie’s fringe from her eyes. “Thank heavens, for mid-life lesbian crisises, ay?”

 

“Indeed,” Bernie smiled at her lover, before turning her head back and settling into her old position. Serena’s hand drifted once more to Bernie’s scalp and Bernie closed her eyes in contentment as Serena played with her hair.

 

But a question niggled at Bernie's mind.

 

“Serena?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Bernie chickened out of the real question she wanted to ask. Searched for something else. Came up with the pathetic:

 

“You don’t really want a rainbow mural, do you?”

 

“Don’t be daft.”

 

Five minutes passed in silence, Serena reading, Bernie fretting silently, working up the courage, until:

 

“Serena? What do you think of marriage?”

 

“As an institution? Heteronormative, patriarchal. Over-rated. An absolute bastard to try and get out of.”

 

“No, I didn’t . . .” Bernie sat up. “Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

 

“It obviously does. Please, Bernie, tell me?”

 

Bernie gulped. “Well, what I was asking was, what do you think of marriage, what would you think of marriage . . . with me?”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“ _Oh_.”

 

“Forget about it. Like you said, it’s over-rated. And we don’t need –”

 

“Bernie, did you just propose?”

 

“I’m not sure. I think so.”

 

“Then one: I agree, we don’t need it, but I do want it. I mean, if you do?”

 

“Yes, but if you’re not sure – “

 

“Okay then, two: shut up and kiss me.”

 

-

 

“Wait.” Later that night, Bernie decides to stop Serena just as her head lowers between Bernie’s thighs.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes, it’s just –“ Bernie’s skin is flushed and her breathing laboured. “Was that a yes?”

 

“You want me to confirm whether I agreed to marry you, right at this second?”

 

Bernie nods.

 

Serena swipes her tongue along Bernie’s sex.

 

“Will this do?”

 

-

 

They didn’t make it to the bedroom that night.

 

-

 

Overall, married life is not that different from life before – but there is one significant change.

 

A 6 pounds, three ounces size of a change.

 

-

 

“Oh God," Serena groans as wails pierce her ears. She pushes the bedsheets off her body. Goes to heave herself up and out the bed. A hand stops her. 

 

It is attached to a pyjama-clad arm. Which is in turn to a body with a very messy head of blonde hair. Ever since they first shared a bed, Serena thought that there ought to be a new entry under the word _bedraggled_ in the dictionary. And that entry ought to be two words: Berenice Wolfe.

 

Her hair sticks up at odds and ends, but her fringe hangs over her eyes. Half-obscuring the mixture of love and tiredness in them. 

 

"I'll go," Bernie whispers into the darkness. "I'm off work tomorrow. You're not."

 

And really Serena should put up a fight. Should argue that Bernie got up earlier. Quarter to two. How many hours ago was that now? Can't be long, Serena thinks, noting briefly how dark the room is, how no morning light has yet seeped in, before she is overcome with the sensation of how gloriously warm the duvet is. How soft the mattress is. How exhausted she is. 

 

(Not quite as exhausted as when it was Elinor's screams splintering her sleep, but Serena remembers it well. After all these years.)

 

So, Serena falls back into bed and back into deep slumber while Bernie tugs on a dressing gown, yawns and plods to the room next door. 

 

She scoops up the crying baby and rocks it in her arms. Shushes her softly. 

 

Nearly two years ago, Elinor had turned up at Holby. Pregnant from a one-night stand. Terrified of her mother's reaction, but equally terrified of not telling her. Of doing it all on her own. 

 

She was keeping it. That was one of the first things she told Serena. When Elinor dropped the bombshell, Serena dropped the files she was holding.

 

That had been a long day – fraught with shock and anger, with yells and questions – but Serena can’t imagine life now without her granddaughter. She knows that Elinor’s pregnancy brought the pair of them closer. She knows she is – always – proud of daughter, but was never prouder when she saw her, holding Ada Campbell for the first time in her arms, exhausted but beaming with joy.

 

“Do you want to meet your grandma?” Elinor had cooed, before passing Serena the baby.

 

Serena had fallen in love instantly.

 

“She’s got your chin.” Bernie had chipped in.

 

“No, she hasn’t.”

 

“Yes, she has.”

 

“Poor sod,” Elinor said the words that were on the tip of Serena’s tongue. Serena was too busy battling back tears and failing spectacularly.

 

-

 

The simple fact is, Elinor’s a single mum and sometimes she needs help. Help, Bernie and Serena are happy to give, even it means waking up at – what is it? Bernie squints at the clock – half four in the morning. 

 

Bernie holds Ada to her chest, cushioning her small head in one hand.

 

“Shush, now. Or we’ll wake Nana Serena.”

 

Ada starts to calm. Bernie knows it is less down to Bernie’s words and more down to the gently rocking motion. Even so, Bernie decides a story is in order.

 

“What would you like this time?”

 

Over the months, Bernie has told Ada stories right from her and Serena’s first meeting to Bernie’s proposal. She realises they haven’t got to the wedding.

 

“How about the morning of the wedding? Hmm? And the time I accidentally, nearly messed everything up?”

 

Ada's gurgles in enthusiasm.

 

“I know. I’m a seasoned pro. Don’t know what your Nana sees in me. Anyway, story-time. It was my wedding day and I was getting dressed, slightly hungover, when I realised something special was missing.”

 

So begins a shortened and PG-version of Bernie and Serena’s wedding day. One, unbeknownst to Bernie, Ada has already heard of – or at least heard Serena version of events, when it was Serena’s return one night to set her back to sleep.

 

Bernie isn’t telling Ada a new story, she’s completing it.

 

“So, I ran to your nanna’s room and –”

 

-

 

Serena is putting the finishing touches to her hair – a spritz of hairspray – when someone barges through her hotel door. Startled at the intrusion, Serena raises the tube of hairspray, poised for attack. Her mouth drops open at the sight of her fiancée. She’s dressed only in a robe, but her face is made-up, a little mascara and pale lipstick, and her hair is somehow, miraculously, straight – straighter than Serena’s ever seen it in their relationship, straighter than Bernie’s ever been in her life.

 

Serena folds one arm around her body, pulling her robe tighter even though it’s knotted at the waist. She doesn’t want Bernie getting a peek of the lingerie she’s spent a small fortune on and more hours than she’d admit carefully picking out for tonight. They’d decided not to get ready together for the sole purpose of surprising each other. One minute later and Bernie could have walked on Serena dressed in her dress – spoiled the surprise.

 

Serena lowers the hairspray, crosses her arms. “There better be some sort of emergency.”

 

Bernie shifts from one foot to the other. “I … erm …” Bernie twists a lock of hair around her finger.

 

“Careful.” Serena nods to her hair. “You’ll muss it up.”

 

“Oh, I don’t like it. I’ve decided to put it up for … that is, I mean if …”

 

“If? If what?”

 

Bernie suddenly can’t meet Serena’s eye.

 

“Berenice Wolfe, why is there an ‘if’ with my wedding?”

 

“I … I can’t find the rings.”

 

“You _lost_ the rings?”

 

“Misplaced.” Bernie corrects. “Temporarily misplaced.”

 

“Well, have you searched your room?”

 

“Everywhere. Twice.”

 

“Oh god. Let me look.”

 

Serena darts past Bernie, out onto the hallway. Jason is walking up to Bernie’s room.

 

“Ah, Jason I need your help. It seems we have a bit of a crisis on our hands.”

 

“Slight understatement.”

 

Serena shoots a yes thank you darling that isn’t helping look at Bernie.

“You’re worried about the rings.” Jason replies.

 

“Yes, can you – “

 

“I have them.” Jason pulls two red velvet boxes out his pocket.

 

“Oh, thank God,” Serena clasps her arms around her nephew. “Where did you find them?”

 

“Auntie Bernie gave them to me last night. She was very anxious about their safekeeping.”

 

“Was she now?” Serena turns to her fiancée. Arches an eyebrow.

 

“Well …” Bernie shrugs. “My instincts were right?”

 

“Auntie Bernie consumed a lot of alcohol last night.”

 

“So much that she’d forgotten she’d even given the rings to you, it appears.”

 

“Hang on,” Bernie levels, tone accusatory. “Serena Ballerina.”

 

“What?”

 

“You put on quite the show.”

 

Serena clutches at the top of her robe nervously.

 

“I did?”

 

“I don’t think Auntie Serena remembers what happened last night, either,” Jason adds.

 

“Shame,” Bernie laments. “I heard her enthusiastic rendition of I Kissed a Girl had the crowd on their feet.”

 

“Please tell me I didn’t. Jason?”

 

“I can neither confirm or deny since I wasn’t there.” He glances at his wristwatch. “I need to finish getting ready.” He slips the rings back into his pocket. “I’ll bring them to the ceremony, as we agreed.” He grins. “See you there.”

 

After he leaves, Serena frantically grasps Bernie’s arm. “Serena Ballerina? There was no pole in the bar last night.”

 

“Apparently, you didn’t need one.”

 

Serena pales. She scrambles for her memories of yesterday, but after around 9’O’clock her mind draws a blank. (In two weeks’ time, Fletch will casually sing ‘you are the dancing queen, only seventeen’ under his breath at the Nurses’ station. Raf will snigger. Serena will hit Fletch on the head with a patient file. Bernie will feel it necessary to defend her wife’s honour and hit Raf, then Fletch on the head with another patient file.)

 

“It wasn’t my fault. Everyone get buying me drinks.”

 

“Ha!”

 

“It would have been rude to refuse them.”

 

“Oh, I wish I’d been there,” Bernie smiles. “Saw you dance.”

 

“Well, if you place your bets rights, tonight looks to be the golden opportunity.”

 

“Campbell, did you just offer me a lap dance?”

 

“Maybe. If you’re good. Now, back to your room you. We’ve still got half an hour.”

 

Bernie groans. “Can’t we just skip to the fun bit?”

 

“No, now shoo!” Serena pushes Bernie half-heartedly. Tries not to think how Bernie, like herself, is nearly naked beneath her robe. How time is saved already. No, they must wait for desert.

 

“Aye, aye.” Bernie calls. Apparently, Serena said that last thought out loud.

 

“I mean it, shoo.”

 

“Wait, Serena. Last night … getting so drunk … I … I don’t want you to think –”

 

“What?”

 

“I mean, you know the whole last night of freedom joke, drink yourself into oblivion before getting shackled to the ball and chain.”

 

“Horseshit.”

 

“For me, definitely – “

 

“Bernie, it’s fine. I got drunk too. But I’m not scared or regretful or thinking any of that.”

 

“Me neither.”

 

“I was just nervous. The good kind of nervous.”

 

Bernie grabs Serena’s hand. “I can’t wait to marry you, Serena Campbell. I know it’s silly, I know we’ve got the rest of lives, but last night, I missed you. I couldn’t wait to see you.”

 

Something hard sticks in Serena’s throat. “The rest of our lives,” she murmurs, blinking back a tear. She is not crying. Bernie is not making her fucking cry. She just did her make-up.

 

Bernie brings one of Serena’s hands to her lips and kisses it briefly.

 

Serena feels water slip down her cheek. Bitch, she thinks, but smiles bright at the woman she loves.

 

“I missed you too,” she admits, before stepping back. Serena holds up her tube of hairspray and points it at her fiancée. “Now, move your arse solider, before I suffocate you with hairspray.”

 

-

 

Bernie is just reaching the point in the tale when her and Serena slide the rings onto each other’s fingers when there is a tap on Ada's bedroom door.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Serena. You shouldn’t have – wait how long have you been stood there?”

 

“Long enough.” Serena watches Bernie gently lie a sleeping Ada back down into cot. “But not long enough for this to go cold.” She passes her wife a mug of hot chocolate.

 

The mug is a gift from last Mother’s Day from Ada, though goodness knows where Ada must have got the money from, she must have stolen her mother’s credit card. It has _To_ _a Wonderful Grandmother_  on it.

 

Bernie and Serena have one each.

 

Luckily, Elinor put their names on this set.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my day. Okay, tell a lie, they make my entire week.


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